


Microcosm of Humanity

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Everything is mirrors, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Honesty, M/M, Post-Canon, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Tarot, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: Over a year after Nopemageddon, Crowley and Aziraphale have an important question to pose to their human friends. In return, they let those friends be open and honest with them, too. A spotlight for and a bit of a character study of Good Omens’ human characters, and also a tentative moving forward of matters between our angel and demon.Can be read as a standalone work.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley & Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer & Sergeant Shadwell & Madame Tracy, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406188
Comments: 64
Kudos: 161





	1. The Witchfinder

“…and tha’s how I got rid of that buggrin’ Borogravian succubus,” concluded former Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwell, scraggly and ponderous as always, proudly sitting back in one of Aziraphale’s comfortable chairs and only barely refraining from pounding himself on the chest. “Sent ‘er right back to her dark masters. Good riddance.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale politely agreed. “I’m sure that’s the last we’ll see of that foul creature.” Privately, he decided it was probably for the best no environmental charity would ever ring Shadwell’s doorbell for donations again. He made a mental note to personally lift them up a little more whenever he could, instead. “Thank you for your service.”

“Soo.” Shadwell took a sip of his tea (condensed milk, nine sugars, of course). “To what do I owe the pleasure of yer invitation, mr. Fell?”

Back before Armageddon, Aziraphale wouldn’t have thought he’d ever invite Shadwell over to the bookshop. Just after it, even less so; it was awful enough when people tried to buy his books, he’d scarcely known how to feel about someone who’d just let them burn (the offense of being dragged back to Heaven paled in comparison). But with time and what appeared to be nothing short of a miracle all its own, Shadwell gradually came to terms with Aziraphale a) being an actual angel formerly of the Lord, b) having temporarily possessed his new wife, and c) said wife having been rather okay with this all along, in that order. For his own part, Aziraphale had gradually gotten over the whole bookshop debacle and having been rather rudely exorcised, not in that order[1].

Grievances having been put aside, the two had actually come to appreciate one another. After all, they were both fond of bygone eras of history, good craftsmanship, antique literature and collecting a proper amount of clutter around themselves. They’d both seen themselves as protectors of reason in the face of darkness, and sometimes still did. Aziraphale had been the first to offer a helping hand and a fair amount of good luck when Shadwell and madame Tracy had moved to their seaside bungalow together, further aided by Newt, Anathema and a reluctant Crowley. Madame Tracy had managed to make the old Witchfinder a bit more palatable as well; Shadwell seemed to have let go of many of his old prejudices, although not all[2]. Aziraphale could sympathise with even that, however; he supposed he’d rather done the same, and it’d taken him, too, far too long.

Which sort of brought him to the reason Shadwell had had the pleasure of the invitation. The angel smiled. “I just thought we had some catching up to do. And, well, Crowley and I have something to ask of you. A favor of sorts.”

“Eh, speakin’ of mr. Crowley, where is he?” Shadwell seemed slightly nervous at the name drop. “Haven’t seen him since the move. Come ta’ think of it, barely saw him then.”

“Oh, he’s in Tadfield today. He won’t be back before dinner, I reckon.” Aziraphale stirred his tea. “Now, I know you’re no longer a Witchfinder-Sergeant, but surely you still keep in touch with the Army, yes?”

“O – o’ course,” Shadwell nodded, with the air of a man who might at some point have been baffled not to be found out, but who wasn’t about to give up the gig now.

“And I know Crowley and I no longer finance the Army, but surely… ah, we’d want to invite them to a certain occasion. All of them.” Crowley had agreed to this idea when Aziraphale had brought it up, with a grin just a bit more foul than normal. The angel had happily taken it for enthusiasm. After all, the Witchfinder Army had been a terrific help in bringing the people that’d actually been of help to Tadfield’s airbase in time; the demon must appreciate them for that at the very least.

Shadwell had gone uncharacteristically quiet. Aziraphale cocked his head. “How are they all, by the way? All in good health? Sergeant Pepper’s allergies –”

“Oh, that they be, all hale and healthy, nothin’ to report,” the old Witchfinder babbled in a voice that’d very much like to change the subject, but found itself in the novel position of not wanting to be impolite to someone he’d actually come to appreciate. It was all the Jezebel’s doing, encouraging him to develop that pesky conscience. Or perhaps, as he was almost ready to admit to himself, the notion that the fell darkness of the supernatural wasn’t so bad that combating it justified rampant fraud and lying to the rare few people he was starting to consider friends. “I reckon they can forego a day battlin’ evil – er, when were ye thinkin’…?”

“Oh, springtime next year, not anything too soon. That’s a yes, then?” Aziraphale beamed at him, and Shadwell suddenly understood all too well why mr. Crowley always wore sunglasses. “How wonderful. We’d be delighted to have them.”

Shadwell fidgeted under that smile. “And ta’ think,” he chuckled nervously, “I’d thought fer a moment you were a demon, mr. Fell. Look at us now.”

“You do know Crowley _is_ an actual demon, mr. Shadwell?”

Crowley wasn’t the one he’d seen phasing out of his wife. Shadwell still stubbornly clung to the notion the man was mafia, or some former rockstar. He briefly opened his mouth, then just shook his head, vaguely dismissing the question altogether.

“And that personally I much prefer dealing with demons over, say, creative people?” Aziraphale smiled patiently, but Shadwell looked more than ever like a man who hadn’t had a creative thought in over fifty years. “Oh, never you mind.”

Shadwell squirmed again. He thought of Tracy and the influence she’d had on him, wringing him out for some modicum of openness and honesty. He thought of how he’d avoided both for a very long time. He thought of how mr. Fell had known how he took his tea, and how he really wouldn’t want mr. Crowley to find out the truth on his own. More than that, he found, he didn’t want mr. _Fell_ to find out on his own. For some reason, that idea unsettled him more. He cleared his throat, put down his cup. “Mr. Fell, there’s, ah, there’s something I have to tell ye.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, after a long and rambling story spanning the past sixty years and unveiling rather a lot of his own ignorance and naiveté. Nothing new there, then; he’d grown used to it by now. So _that_ was why Crowley had smirked at the notion of inviting the entire Army. “Well, you really had us good.” He chuckled. “I suppose I must applaud you, mr. Shadwell, running the whole business on your own!”

“Yer not… miffed in any capacity, then?”

“My dear fellow, you’ve done a bang-up job of it, and money was never much of an issue for us,” the angel smiled. “I’m glad you told me, I really am. I can only imagine what it must’ve been like, keeping up appearances for so long.” (He could imagine. He really could. He found himself experiencing some potent second-hand relief.) “Well. Then I suppose I should only be asking if _you_ can spare a day for us come spring. And madame Tracy, of course, wouldn’t miss her for the world.”

“Aye. Aye, o’ course.”

“And… there’s something else I was planning to ask of you alone.” Aziraphale smiled down at his hands for a moment, met the former Sergeant’s eyes, and posed his question.

Shadwell blinked for a moment, considered the glad tidings he’d just been given, and straightened his back. “Afore I take part in any o’ this… I have ta’ ask ye. How… how many nipples hae ye got, mr. Fell?”

“Ah. Well. Just the two… whenever I deem them necessary.” Aziraphale sipped his tea, offering just a hint of smirk over the cup’s rim. “You see, size and shape are merely options for me and my wonderful fiancé, and nipples on our current forms are rather superfluous.”

Shadwell’s mouth worked as he turned this information over in his head. He’d never had to think about too _few_ nipples. In the end, he simply shrugged. “Well, tha’s alright then.” He grinned, reaching across the coffee table to shake Aziraphale’s hand. “Aye, I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1The exorcism really hadn’t been that bad. After all, there was only a nominal difference between angels and demons, and he’d been long overdue for something Crowley had gone through unfairly often through the ages.[return to text]
> 
> 2There had been a fair amount of menacing Anathema with pins, but in the end England’s last true witch had simply snatched the official Witchfinder equipment from his unsteady hand and used it to matter-of-factly pin up her hair with. She wore them to this day, glistening silvery in her dark locks, with only the slightest hint of pride.[return to text]
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment, always love hearing from you guys! <3


	2. The Wages Clerk

Newton Pulsifer had made a deal with a demon.

Tadfield, Crowley had found, was a rather unique village. It was idyllic in a way you didn’t really get anywhere else anymore, not in this day and age. Perhaps not ever, anywhere. The woods were pristine, with trees perfect for climbing and building huts in, and streams full of interesting little crawling things. The buildings were quaint and leaned into one another like old friends, the orchards were fruitful, and the people were pleasant, with a few grouchy exceptions to keep life interesting. In other words, Tadfield was exactly what a young boy might see as paradise. A Young boy, to be more precise.

The Young boy in question had taken his tastes and sensibilities from a variety of adventurous tales and childhood memories. In general, these weren’t as up to date as Crowley would’ve expected. As such, Tadfield appeared frozen in time, unchanging. Protected from change. He’d known there had been a bypass planned to run very close to the village indeed, but it’d been viciously delayed, and then the plans had just quietly tapered off and slunk away like wounded creatures that simply could not stand before the Prince of this World.

As such, Tadfield’s denizens weren’t really, truly part of the modern world. They weren’t big on computers, for one.

Tadfield’s town hall ran entirely on paper. And Crowley was draped against it right now, just beside the entrance, passing time bullying the pigeons in the square under its perfectly fiery autumn trees.

It’d only been a tiny demonic intervention, really. The old geezer had been long overdue for retirement. He’d just needed a tiny little reminder of his own mortality, and that was always ever so easily accomplished. A little hiccup of the heart, a tiny scare, and off he’d popped, out of his very own free will, home to tend to his chicken coop and relieved grandkids.

A position had opened up, and the man to potentially fill it had been informed quickly and gleefully. And now here Crowley was, waiting for him to return from his intake interview.

Newton Pulsifer had made a deal with a demon, and Crowley always delivered to those he’d grown to appreciate.

Here he came now, looking as always as if he’d been dragged backwards through a great hedge, but beaming all the same. Crowley offered him a grin like a knife. “Went well, then?”

“I’m hired,” the lad breathed. A thousand ‘thank you’s were clearly on the tip of his tongue, but by now he knew the demon too well to let any of them slip. “Are you _sure_ this isn’t a good deed, Crowley?” he said instead.

“Nah,” the demon replied airily. “Do you have any idea how annoyed every other set of authorities is with Tadfield’s paperwork? You’re only gonna add to the overall frustration. This parish could do with a little tainting, it’s far too idyllic. Win-win, really.”

“Fair enough,” Newt smiled. “And me appreciating the gesture is really just a mark of how far you’ve managed to corrupt me, right?”

“Ah!” the demon exclaimed in pleasant mock surprise. “This one gets it.”

Yes. Crowley truly had grown to appreciate Newton Pulsifer.

They’d had a bit of a rocky, awkward start, being as they were a quiet but curious human chap and a wary, closed-off demon who, to be fair, still didn’t answer all the questions Newt had for him, but they’d still come to understand and respect one another over time. At first, Crowley had thought Newt was just a dime-a-dozen office worker with an interesting impairment, but then he’d found out a bit more. He’d found out, for one, that Newt had been willing to dive under the bed with a self-professed witch he’d known for all of fifteen minutes while a tornado tore the roof off her house. That’d he’d been willing to throw in his luck with Shadwell at all. That he had a bucket list including but not limited to bank robbery. That there were prophecies about him in the book that’d saved them all and was now one of his angel’s most treasured possessions.

He’d never forget Aziraphale’s delightful amusement to finding the one mentioning a ‘great cockalorum’. Such a charming word. He’d missed hearing it around.

The demon had started giving the lad a chance, and they’d gradually taken to tentative openness. And bless it, but try as he might to fight it, he recognized himself in Newt a little too often. His skepticism, his curiosity – his penchant for ruining perfectly functional systems by mere proximity. Although of course, where Crowley had done the ruining with an apple, Newt simply crashed the Apple itself.

And, well. The way he’d helped Anathema adjust to life without her precious Prophecies, taking the first steps into a life without set rules and a plan to hold on to? He could definitely relate to that, and applaud it besides.

The demon tossed his head back towards the town hall as they strolled away from it across the sunlit square, pigeons wisely fleeing all around. “You sure it won’t get boring for you in there? I could’ve landed you any job, you know. Could’ve made you a rockstar, probably.”

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t be fair. In all honesty, I’m still figuring out what I really want to do, and this is just the nice, calm thing to tide me over… although, I’m not completely sure it’s all that nice and calm, I have to say.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow as they walked. “Oh?”

“They… showed me a door to what I think is a secret basement? It had runes on it?” Newt rubbed the back of his head, further messing up his scruffy hair. “There were a few people wearing mysterious robes, and I was told I’d get the full initiation next Thursday…”

“…full moon.” Crowley nodded, pondering this for a moment. Of course. Adam might not want to rule the world, but as Tadfield was all the world he needed, the village couldn’t help but be a little influenced. Whatever Adam assumed was going on at town hall, _was_ going on at town hall. And as long as Anathema kept giving him ideas about world government with those magazines of hers…

…Well, he wouldn’t be surprised if that rune-covered door led right into the hollow Earth, was all. Perhaps Newt would be meeting some lizardfolk soon. Crowley hoped so. He was still rather proud of his part in that one.

At the very least, Newt wouldn’t be bored while he was at it. “Well, in that case, if it ever gets too _weird_ for you –” He caught sight of Newt’s small smile, that shy but fearless thing he wore increasingly often. “Life is already pretty weird at best. I’m up for anything by this point.”

“Ah, that’s the spirit. Good lad.” Crowley grinned, but then glanced around behind his dark glasses. “Now, though. This _is_ a deal with a demon. You knew the risk you were taking with that.”

“There’s always a price to pay.” Newt didn’t sound worried in the slightest.

“That there is. I’ve got a bit of a personal favour to ask of you. Y’see…”

Newt’s small smile widened as he heard the news. He halted at once, leading the demon to round on him. “Crowley,” he spoke, “I know you’re a demon and all, and I couldn’t be happier with the job, but there was really no need to strike a deal for this. I’d be honoured.”

“You don’t see it as a price to pay?”

“Of course not. Crowley, I’m so happy for you.”

“Well then, that just means you’ll be in demonic debt for a bit.” But the demon’s current grin was his brightest yet, and a little touched besides, even if he’d never admit it.


	3. The Witch

“Is this your card, my dear?”

Anathema narrowed her eyes at what she was presented with. Instead of a terrible magic trick, she was greeted by the Magician himself, proudly crowned with his infinity symbol, surrounded by his wand and cup, amulet and sword. She let out a little laugh. “You tell me.”

Aziraphale placed the tarot card on the table with a flourish, leaning back. “Strength of will, a willingness to face risks, initiative leading to success. Producing change for the better and, if I may be so bold, quite literally making the magic happen! Young lady, do not play coy with me, this card speaks nothing but truth.”

The young witch let her growing smile slip into a grin. “Alright, alright. I have done well for myself, haven’t I.”

Aziraphale merely sipped his tea (herbal, home-grown) and gave Anathema a mock stern look over the rim. He’d come to visit her for more than just tea and a playful round of divination (which of course, Aziraphale being Aziraphale, had gravitated towards cards). The angel had been long overdue to see the little spiritual shop she’d turned part of Jasmine Cottage into. It was still just as cozy as it’d always been, but now also provided room for a collection of books on mysticism and prophecy (rather modern editions), a carved table for tarot, palm and rune readings, and a beautiful collection of healing gems and minerals for sale. The ceiling was garlanded with dreamcatchers, dyed fabrics and dried herbs.

Anathema had stepped into a new life after finding such a thing could exist after Agnes’ prophecies in the first place. At first, navigating it on her own had been difficult, but she’d gradually discovered the parts of herself that’d grown separately from her family’s cherished book and the mission of following it to the letter. She’d found she genuinely liked and enjoyed the occult for its own sake, and she was proud of her talents in that regard. Newt had been enthusiastic about her endeavor, and had recently taken to reading her New Aquarian magazines with new and sudden interest before she could pass them off to Adam.

Madame Tracy had helped her set up the shop, and imparted some of her own particular wisdom, from an experienced fake medium to a young actual witch. “Not all of it actually works,” Anathema had entrusted the angel[1]. “Some of it is only there for the look, or to put people at ease. These Tibetan fabrics are practically conventional fashion.”

“They are quite swanky,” the angel had said, leading Anathema to wisely refrain from reacting at all to his use of the term or, worse, picturing him in them. “But, pardon my asking, aren’t most methods of divination rather… superfluous for you? You always have the Sight, no?”

She’d chuckled. “Yes, that does help. But the other methods are more comforting, and I never give too accurate a reading. People don’t really appreciate the full truth, and I don’t want to scare anyone off. Well, usually.”

“Ah, classic headology.” The angel had smiled. “I do admire you, my dear, you’re far better with customers than I’ve ever been.”

“Well, it’s not like you need the revenue,” Anathema had remarked. “But perhaps more than even that, I don’t want to use the Sight to tell people what they _ought_ to be doing. A bit of figuring things out by oneself is important, I think.”

Aziraphale had quieted. “Yes, rather. It’s _everything,_ my dear.” He’d met her eyes, a twinkle in his own. “We’ve all come such a very long way.”

Presently, Anathema was blindly rifling through the tarot deck, pulling out another card. “Alright. Is this _your_ card?”

The lady Strength, gently calming her lion; coincidentally, the only other figure crowned with the infinity symbol. Aziraphale demurely turned away. “Oh, I really wouldn’t know –”

“The ability to overcome sorrow and pain, as well as using patience and gentleness as a solution to problems.” Now it was Anathema’s turn to smugly lean back in her seat. “Are you sure it’s not literally you on this card? White robes, blonde curls…”

“It is the sort of form I’d take if I felt so inclined, yes. But…” The angel faltered, trailing off.

“But…?” Anathema gently supplied.

“…But, well. If you must know, I always considered myself more of a Hanged Man, personally.” The angel gave a small smile. “You know. Resistance to change, false prophecy, useless sacrifice. Bad decisions to distract oneself from actual causes of unhappiness.”

“Ah.” Anathema briefly glanced at the cards. “Well, you may be forgiven for reading it that way. The Hanged Man _is_ suspended upside down after all. But I’m afraid that’s the inverted reading. Right side up, the card symbolizes new understanding, improvement and the fact that it’s never too late to make a change and move forward.” She smiled. She wasn’t a very tactile person, but now she reached out a hand across the card-strewn table, and Aziraphale tentatively took it.

“As you said, we’ve _both_ come a long way.”

“My dear…”

“Aziraphale, there is something I’d like you to know.” Her dark eyes held his, though it was visibly hard for her to keep it up. “I gave you the original Nice and Accurate Prophecies, but that’s not the only thing of Agnes’ I rid myself of. You… you’re probably not going to like this.”

“Not the only thing? You can’t mean… she wrote _more?_ ”

“There was a second book, _Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com._ She had…” Anathema paused, her hand clenching Aziraphale’s. “…She had the _gall_ to supply that with _Ye Saga Continues,_ cheery as anything.” Her voice briefly threatened to hitch, but she kept a firm hold on herself. “I burned it. Over a year ago now. Part of me wanted to keep it, to read it, but then Newt asked if I wanted to be a descendant all my life and I realized I _didn’t,_ I really didn’t, no matter how terrifying it was to have run out of prophecies.” She shook back her hair, her eyes dry but her hand gone vice-tight in Aziraphale’s. The angel showed no signs of letting go. “And I know I’m on the prophesied path regardless, but –”

“But you’re not, my dear. It’s no longer prophesied now, is it?” Aziraphale quirked a smile, eyes glittering. “You did so well.”

“You’re not upset? But you love prophecies. You hold them in higher regard than…” The witch gestured, unwilling to say it but clearly referring to a Book that _ought_ to top off every angel’s list of favorites.

“Oh, I used to, certainly. The accurate ones and the faulty ones. I compared them all to the Great Plan, sagely nodding or tittering in derision. But the joke was on me all along, wasn’t it – well, me and the Plan, I suppose. And thank Someone for that. It’s no good, being on a predetermined path. I gladly leave the knowing to Her alone.” The angel caught the witch’s eye. “Agnes must’ve known you’d burn it, mustn’t she? Perhaps the pages were empty?”

“No, every page was filled. I flipped through them just once, just to see.” Anathema frowned. “Why would she do that?”

The angel considered this for a moment, before thoughtfully resting his chin into his free hand. “So that burning it would be a real choice, I suppose. To show you she respects whatever choice you’d make, your _free will._ ” Aziraphale gave her a small squeeze. “And as a most fervent proponent, admirer and novice practitioner of that very thing, well, who could I possibly be to object to you exercising it? Think nothing of it, dear girl. You did the right thing. Thank you for trusting me.”

Anathema had broken out into a relieved grin as he spoke. “I’m so glad you think so too. You know I do occasionally still have my doubts about living for myself, even if deep down I know I have every right to.”

“Hmm. I know just what you mean. It’s only natural, after only ever keeping to someone else’s plan.” Aziraphale gave her a gentle smile, but then broke into a grin as he reached out behind her ear. “But what’s this? Look what’s just presented itself.” A card twirled between his fingers, and the angel glowed as the young witch laughed; here at least was someone who could appreciate his tricks.

“The Fool.” Anyone else might’ve been indignated, but there was only touched understanding in Anathema’s voice. “You really think this one ought to be included in my reading?”

“Stepping towards the cliff’s edge brave as anything, facing the unknown with a smile? Opportunity and possibility, and _knowing_ you yourself are all you need? I’d certainly say so.” Aziraphale placed the card down. “The first of the deck. A new beginning. Those are very valuable, you know, and all the more so for how rare they are for beings such as myself.”

“Let’s be fair, new beginnings haven’t been that rare for you lately, now have they?” Anathema slyly reached for the deck. “Let’s see. Ah, just as I thought. The Lovers…”

“Now see here, young lady –”

“I can’t imagine how happy you must’ve been since you both freed yourselves.” The witch had gone quiet and sincere, briefly forgoing the easier language of symbolism for a direct address, and Aziraphale stilled at once. “Yes you can,” he then smiled.

“No, I can’t. I’d go blind. Your aura’s an ethereal fire hazard, even when you’re not around him. I haven’t made the mistake of Looking since you got together.”

Aziraphale smiled bashfully, but then abruptly looked up, brows rising in apology. “Oh, but then – I’ve been beating around the bush, as they say, thinking I didn’t need to actually _say_ it, but if you aren’t Looking, then –”

“You underestimate me, Aziraphale,” Anathema chuckled. “Me, the last true witch of England.”

Aziraphale might not be the most observant among the Heavenly Host, but he knew when a human was toying with him. His mouth quirked ever so slightly. “Newt couldn’t keep it to himself, could he.”

“He really couldn’t,” she conceded, laughing. “He was so excited, it was only too easy to get it out of him. Aziraphale, I know what you want to ask, and I’m just as honoured as Newt was when Crowley asked him. I’ll do it, of course I will.”

“My dear girl,” the angel beamed, “the honour is all mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Who, at that point, had been about to bless the colourful collection of gems into doing exactly as advertised, but now quickly pulled back his hand and divine essence.[return to text]
> 
> Very sorry to leave you hanging one last time, but can you guess what the humans are being invited for? :D


	4. The Jezebel

Two sets of footprints in the sand of an East Sussex beach under the great crumbled face of a white chalk cliff, one made by a pair of colourful flip-flops, the other by, presumably, a pair of black snakeskin boots. Two people walking companionably away from the few courageous beachgoers willing to brave the oncoming autumn chill.

The taller of the two had shoved his hands tightly in his too-small pockets, pressing his arms to his sides and making himself even narrower than he was already. Being out here was nice, but it still helped to have the promise of something warm, spiced and probably alcoholic in the near future. His companion would see to that, though. ‘Mother hen’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Crowley looked up. “May I just say, Madame, now we’re out of earshot of your husband and any rash conclusions he might jump to, you look as lovely as the day we met.”

“Oh, you old tempter, you.” Madame Tracy giggled behind a daintily gloved hand, and if she did blush, it was remarkably well hidden under her makeup. “You’re just trying to distract me. Out with it, you know I can’t stand it when mr S. knows something I don’t. Normally I can practically read his mind, the old coot. It’s ever so vexing.”

Madame Tracy had never been truly psychic, just observant; observant enough to know people didn’t want true psychic powers in the first place. She had an understanding of humanity that’d taken Crowley, the instigator of the things that arguably made humans _human,_ millennia to even begin to grasp. He loved her for it. “No, I mean it. Your hair…” he gestured at the gently tumbling curls she’d allowed to grow out, her actual hair no longer needing to be covered with one silly wig or another, but still dyed her signature fiery ginger and clashing wonderfully with her vibrant, billowy Bohemian attire, “the – the _flutteriness_ of it all, suits you. That, and I just, hrm…” He groused for a moment, struggling with himself, but then deciding _to Hell with it,_ “…I don’t tell you I appreciate you often enough.” He turned away as Tracy pressed a touched hand to her chest, but that didn’t diminish his honesty. He really did, and not only because she’d given his angel such an excellent ride without complaining or screaming even once. The lady just had such wonderful integrity. Not killing kids even in the face of Armageddon? Pulling an old geezer from most of his misguided habits? Telling people what they were already thinking and getting _paid_ for it? He couldn’t applaud her enough.

After a brief moment of silence, she gently swatted his arm. “Oh, cut it out, you old sap. I don’t know how to handle a compliment, you well know that.”

The demon quietly smiled to himself. Another thing they had in common. And not the last, either.

Madame Tracy might not have had any superiors, not in any real sense, but she’d still been just as occupied with her image as Crowley. Even when she’d finally stepped away from clients desiring either the physical or the metaphysical, and invited Shadwell over to share in the dream of a new beginning, she’d presented herself the way she’d assumed the old witchfinder might like her best; as honestly as possible, or so she’d thought at the time. No makeup, no wigs, the most unassuming attire she still owned. It’d taken a while for her to realize that, now the retired witchfinder had seen her for the person she was underneath the colourful masquerade, he’d treat her as such no matter what she looked like. Only then had she realized she was free to find out what she actually _wanted_ to look like for her own sake, who she really was underneath all those expectations and outside viewpoints.

When she’d told Crowley this over tea months afterward, matter-of-fact as anything, the demon had suddenly been reminded of a day when overwhelmed black coils had wrapped around an angel’s waist and shoulders for the first (and far from last) time. He’d barely quashed the impulse to just hug the retired medium then and there. It was a heady thing, being seen for _who_ you were and not just _what._

“Now then, out with it,” the medium in question gently ribbed him. “What are we really taking this stroll for, dear? Is it about your man?” She smiled, devious as any denizen of Hell. “It’s ever such a pity you never took my offer to help you spice things up in your relations, dear. Never too early to boost young love…”

“Ngk.” Crowley felt himself flush, his face suddenly hot in the chilly sea breeze. “Er. They’re not exactly that kind of relations, madame. Not that young a love, either. But there is something else you might help us with.”

“Oh?”

“Y’see, we recently proposed to one another –”

“ _Oh!_ ” Madame Tracy clasped her hands to her chest, her face lit up with joy. “Oh Crowley, how lovely! Congratulations!”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin back; her joy transported him right back to that cool summer evening at the edge of a rainy East Hampshire lake, a moment that’d seemed more like a dream than anything whenever he wasn’t at his angel’s side to anchor it in reality. “Yeah. Can’t really believe it myself either.”

“Wait just a moment, though.” Tracy looked downright sly for a moment. “You _both_ proposed?”

“Alright, he made the first move.”

“Well, there you go. He’s really rather the forward type, isn’t he?”

Crowley physically restrained himself from cringing. “You have no idea,” he told the woman who’d first met his angel right after he’d willingly leapt out of Heaven and done a 180 on a reserved attitude older than time. “We’re, uh, planning to get married next spring.” Now there was an unbelievable sentence. He felt almost dizzy hearing himself say it. “And we… _I_ was wondering if you’d like to be, y’know, my maid of honour, and one of my witnesses.”

“Ooh-!” Madame Tracy halted at once, utter delight sparkling in her heavily shadowed eyes. “Mr. Crowley, you do know I’m not much of a maid…”

Crowley said nothing, but only lifted his sunglasses so she could see the sincerity in his eyes. She blinked, coyness making way for honest warmth. “It really would be my pleasure, of course.” She raised her eyebrows in sudden realization. “Does that mean mr. Aziraphale…”

“He asked Shadwell to be his best man, yes. We both asked Newt and Anathema as well.” Crowley smiled in slightly incredulous elation. “They all agreed.”

“Us four? Well, I’ll be.” She let out a little laugh. “You being what you are, are you sure you want the likes of us attending? I’m surprised you’d be up for something as… well, as _mundane_ as human marriage at all, dear. Though I suppose it’s all about the meaning you give to things yourself.”

“Right, that’s just it. Doing things the human way means… a lot to us, and we kinda want humans to be there as well.” Crowley rested his gaze on the horizon ahead, between the endless sea and the white cliffs. “Humans who know us for what we are. Those have been… few and far between in our lives.” He met Tracy’s eyes, still somewhat careful with and wary of his own sincerity, but also very deliberately letting them both have this, just for now. “It’d mean more than anything in Heaven or Hell.”

She briefly clasped his hands, instantly warming them. “Well, who am I to say no to that?”

“…And also, knowing the other three, you’d bring some sorely needed colour to the whole affair.”

“Oh! Scoundrel, you’re one to talk!” They shared a laugh, and then Tracy was chattering away again, toting him back to civilization and a drink, all according to plan. Crowley gladly let it happen; his head was spinning ever so slightly without a single drop of alcohol now matters had been shared and settled. They both had their witnesses. This was really happening.

It might still be half a year away, but he could feel the thrill of it humming in his bones, all the way from the future. It felt like the opposite of spooky. Still, he was a big fan nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's your answer :D Now, there is a fifth chapter (not the actual wedding yet, that is of course getting its own story) which is getting to be at least twice as long as any of these four. Writing is going rather well, but I'm not totally sure if I can have it done by tomorrow as I planned. Might, might not. Any case, it's coming very soon, matter of days! :D It's a silly thing, is all I can say for now :P If I don't get it done in time, happy new year in advance!
> 
> I've been out of it for a long time because work was so busy. Spending every snatched moment of the holidays writing once again is so lovely. This series isn't going anywhere as long as I can help it, also very much because of your lovely comments! You guys really keep me going, so thank you for being here. <3


	5. The Bachelors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year!
> 
> Just a little something silly to top it off with. Couldn't send them off without it and part of me has been itching for it for a while, so... :D

And now a cold winter had passed them by, more plans had been made, and London had been festooned in flowers and rainstorms alike for a new spring.

Crowley and Aziraphale were sharing a quiet evening in the bookshop, recovering from a rather hectic week mostly spent with their wedding planner. A lovely woman, but at a certain point all the talk and pressing last-minute decisions rendered one unable to do anything but order some takeout and collapse into a good book, and onto one’s angelic partner, respectively. The angel and demon had just gotten comfortable and allowed the tension to leave their bodies and thoughts. Crowley had just started falling asleep on Aziraphale’s chest.

Then the doorbell tinkled.

Aziraphale rose, eliciting a barely-conscious groan from Crowley. “Good people,” the angel started as he opened the door, rubbing his forehead, “I’m afraid we’ve never been more closed – oh. Um, good – good evening?”

“Evenin’,” said Shadwell, tipping his felt hat. Newt, grinning wide, gave a little wave. Madame Tracy tittered as she saw Crowley groggily approaching from the back of the shop and fumbling on his glasses, just in time to be handed one of two tarot cards by Anathema. “We’ve come to bring you a prediction,” the witch smiled. “Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com for the two of you.”

Aziraphale looked from his card to the four humans before him, and back again. His expression rapidly cycled between a very polite, very English brand of irritation at being rudely dragged out of his quiet evening, pleasant surprise to see his friends at his door, and incomprehension at what he’d just been handed. His mouth worked to match words to these thoughts, but it was Crowley who spoke first, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he did. “Two Wheels of Fortune, eh? What, you lot here to improve our evening? Bring us great wisdom and clues to the future?”

“In a sense,” Madame Tracy nodded, pursing painted lips in an only slightly wicked smile.

Aziraphale still grappled with the situation, but his desire to not seem rude did finally override everything else. “Why don’t I invite you in?” he started, opening the door wider with a welcoming gesture. “It’s ever so chilly out, let me make some room…”

“Actually, we’ve come to invite you _out_ ,” Newt remarked. Crowley blinked, suddenly considerably more awake, even though Aziraphale’s incomprehension only seemed to deepen. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Anathema grinned. “We can’t just let you get married without a bachelor party, now can we.”

“Stag night, strumpet,” Shadwell corrected her, immediately followed by a scandalized admonishment from Madame Tracy. In the meantime, Crowley had started grinning at this prospect, nudging a mortified Aziraphale. Anathema was quick to reassure the angel. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to separate you or do anything too crazy. Shadwell is right,” she graciously admitted, “no need to celebrate the single life, I suppose, none of that ‘last breath of free air’ nonsense. Not when you’re finally breathing free _now._ ”

“There’ll still be plenty o’ drink, though,” the old witchfinder cheerfully supplied.

“Well, obviously,” Crowley chuckled. “Though you’re all going to have to really work to out-drink us, but I’ll gladly accept any challengers.” He grinned at Aziraphale. “This’ll take our minds off all that serious business lately, won’t it?”

The angel had relaxed, pressing a touched hand to his chest. “Oh, you devious lot. Well, we _have_ been a bit stressed, I suppose…”

“Then that settles it,” Newt smiled, barely veiled excitement in his eyes. “Allow us.”

Crowley had dipped into the shop, coming back in his coat and helping his angel into his. “The night is young,” he grinned. “Lead the way.”

What followed was the warm haze of one pub after the other; light and smoke, music and laughter and _people,_ ales and wines and ciders. Crowley and Aziraphale arguably knew Soho better than most of its human inhabitants, or at least so they’d thought; it was always different with actual human company and a long time since they’d enjoyed that. It was especially different when it was announced, with increasing enthusiasm and upon entering every next establishment, that you were getting married in a mere few weeks.

Where the angel and demon had always held great appreciation for humanity but never so much as hoped to truly be part of it, they were now given warm welcomes all over, often accompanied by a drink on the house. They found themselves swept up in the festive mood, unfamiliar as it was to have it revolving around them.

To the surprise of everyone but Tracy, Shadwell was the one leading the way through the bar crawl; he turned out to know the best back alley pubs, long since overgrown and crowded out by the rest of London, but still the warmest and most nostalgic for Crowley and Aziraphale. Some had been thought lost even to them, and they were delighted to be proven wrong.

“Never would’ve thought you had it in you, Sergeant,” Crowley grinned, colourful mood lighting reflecting off his glasses. “I mean, I did meet you in the old _Dirty Donkey,_ but…”

“Aye, you ought ta’ know I spent much of my early days in these here alleys, lad,” the witchfinder reminisced. “Livin’ a life o’ sin. Dancin’ and drinkin’ an’ pummelin’ any untoward louts I came across…”

“Is that why you ended up in prison in the 60s?” Newt asked.

“Aye, laddie. All too often. An’ on one such drunken incarceration I encountered mr. Narker, an’ I figured I was up for a wee change of directions.” Shadwell rested his stubbly chin on his hand, wistfully gazing into his sherry. “He dinnae leave Brixton jail. I left it a witchfinder. The rest is history, eh?” He looked up. “Seem ta’ve come full circle, though. Dinnae feel so bad.”

Tracy took his arm, dragging him into a clumsy half-hug. “I much prefer the new old you, mr. S,” she smiled. She’d kept up with him glass for glass, though she wasn’t wavering and swaying half as much as him, to the surprise of everyone but Shadwell. Even Crowley and Aziraphale were feeling a tingle in their fingertips by now, and whereas Anathema had been smart enough to alternate with other beverages and even the odd glass of water[1], Newt was practically upside down in his seat[2]. That didn’t deter him from jumping into the lull in conversation with sudden gusto, however. “Say,” he piped up, attempting to drag himself upright, “what time is it?”

With a bit of fumbling for phones and pocket watches (Newt not having taken chances with either), it turned out to be later than Aziraphale had expected, but not as late as Anathema had feared. Newt seemed relieved as well. “Good.”

“Why?” Crowley wanted to know. “What’s the dastardly plan?”

“Well, if we hurry, we can still make it to the _Cambridge_ over on Charing Cross Road. I used to do pub quizzes there with friends from uni… university.”

“Well, that’s not very dastardly, as plans go,” the demon remarked.

“I _have_ always wanted to know which one of you would be better at trivia, though,” Newt lazily remarked. Crowley immediately sat up. “Hey, instigator of knowledge of good and evil and all that, here! There should be no… oh no, angel, I don’t mean it like that, it’s just – I tend to get out more, is all…”

Aziraphale glared at the demon as he gradually petered out into excuses, but then couldn’t hold back his grin any longer. “Be that as it may, dear Serpent, but _I’ve_ clearly done the lion’s share of reading between us.” Crowley brightened as he went on: “Don’t count me out just yet. In fact, count me in.” The angel waved over one of the current pub’s staff members, generously tipping as the others scrambled for their coats. Once outside, he engaged in a playful bit of glaring with the demon, trying to one-up one another as they speedwalked through the Soho streets hand in hand.

Newt and Anathema led the way just ahead of them, and Aziraphale briefly took his eyes off Crowley as he recalled something the young man had said. “You’ve never told me you went to university, Newt.”

“Ah, nah. Not that much to tell, I’m afraid,” Newt smiled bashfully through his tipsy blush. “I mean, I _tried_ to study computer sciences at University College, but I only passed a handful of subjects by way of some miracle.”

“Well, not one of ours,” the angel warmly replied. “All your own, I can assure you.” Anathema smiled and pulled Newt a bit closer as they strode on.

“Still, with the minimal sort of degree I managed to get, there was no hope of a job in the field, so I just sort of… lost track of the friends I’d made there as they all landed their own positions and moved away.”

“You’ve got us now, dear,” Madame Tracy called out from behind them, hobbling to keep up. “And you’re not getting rid of us, make no mistake!” Shadwell rumbled some vague form of agreement, though the sentiment was clear.

Newt lowered his eyes, unable to stop smiling. “I suppose I have been rather lucky, really,” he admitted. He looked up. “Oh, here we are.” He swung open the door to the _Cambridge_ , inviting the others in. They were just in time to enroll their team into the quiz. Anathema quickly hijacked the process, entering them as the _Ineffables_ as Crowley rolled back his head and groaned – which made him miss the smug and surreptitious high five between her and Aziraphale.

They settled at a table just as the quiz got started. As Shadwell arranged drinks, the first few questions rolled around, and the group bickered over the supposed answers. Crowley and Aziraphale realized this wasn’t going to be as easy as they’d thought; even Crowley hadn’t kept up with every aspect of music and pop culture, and neither of them had ever been into sports. But then: “Which Apollo 11 astronaut did _not_ set foot on the moon?”

“Pssh,” Crowley grinned. “That’s easy.”

“Showoff,” Aziraphale grumbled good-naturedly. “Cheat. You were there.”

“Michael Collins,” the demon told Anathema, who was in charge of writing their answers down. “Poor bugger looked after the ship while the rest popped out for a stroll.”

“Time’s up,” the bartender announced. “Now, according to legend, which man rode horses named Llamrei, Hengroen and Passelande?”

“Oh, oh, I know this one!” Aziraphale piped up. He shot Crowley a look. “ _I_ was there. King Arthur.”

“Psh, that peacekeeping bastard. Make England foment again, says I.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Anathema remarked, without looking up from her scribbling.

“Which ancestor of Noah is also the name of an oversized champagne bottle that holds six litres?”

“Oh, blast,” Aziraphale breathed. “We really ought to know this one, dearest.”

“Angel, _you’re_ supposed to know this one. It’s in the bloody Bible.”

“ _Yes,_ but I don’t know the Good Book _quite_ by heart, you see…”

Anathema looked up. “What are you talking about? I knew Agnes by heart! You should at least…”

“Shush, shush, I’m thinking!” The angel flapped in Crowley’s direction. “Crowley, you ought to know about the champagne bit!”

“Hm, not really my drink, though,” the demon pondered, swirling around a white Verdelho certainly not normally served at the _Cambridge._

The others observed their bickering with amusement, moreso when Tracy leant into Anathema and whispered ‘Methuselah’. It wouldn’t be the last time human intervention would be needed, even with historical material. It turned out Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t paid all that much attention to most of Earth’s history, partly because they’d been busy cooking up methods to safely meet one another. But that, too, was part of their story, and that was what tonight was about, after all. It certainly led to a number of warm and smitten nostalgic smiles in between the bouts of bickering.

They didn’t win, of course; not even close. That honour went to a group that clearly attended every week and was annoyingly well-versed in just about every topic that’d come up. Crowley got up to pay for their drinks and usher the others out in the same move. For a moment, it appeared the demon was simply a sore loser, but then the lights sputtered and faltered behind the Ineffables’ backs, and the resulting darkness had the winning group trip over one another on their way to claim their prize: a gleaming bottle of Pellegrino Marsala. When the lights blinked back on, the bottle was gone, and Crowley neatly closed the door behind them with a smirk. “Come on,” he chuckled, invitingly jerking his chin, “I fancy some fresh air. A stroll to the Square Gardens, perhaps? They’re not far…”

A sliver of moon was bright above them, the city lights even brighter as they all made their way over to a series of park benches in the aptly named square patch of green in northeast Soho. Aziraphale settled down with a small huff, smiling as Crowley nestled in against him. “Poor puzzled moon,” the angel muttered, gazing up at the sky. Then he frowned, feeling something that ought not to be there. “Crowley, is that…”

“A bottle in my jacket? Yes, though I’ll also always be happy to see you, angel.”

“Oh, you _fiend!_ ” The angel swatted his demon’s arm, but there was no sting to it; otherwise Crowley wouldn’t have descended into snickering the way he did, soon dragging the angel with him into undignified giggles. The others also uttered their approval as soon as they saw the bottle. “Drinks on me,” the demon grinned, letting Aziraphale have the first sip. For all his token protest, the angel’s attitude soon melted into delight as he tasted the vintage. “Oh, but this _is_ a lovely one, dearest.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm, delicious indeed.”

“I may have slightly improved the vintage, as good as it might’ve been already.” Crowley’s eyes briefly gleamed right through his glasses even at night, fixating his angel in such a way the others were almost inclined to turn away altogether, feeling like they were intruding on something rather intimate. Then the bottle was wiped and passed around for the rest to enjoy, and Anathema actually got tipsy enough to burst into laughter as Aziraphale suddenly pulled a batch of devilled eggs and gravlax toasts from nowhere. “What?” the angel said innocently. “I got peckish –”

“How’d those get into your pockets, then?” the witch asked. Aziraphale only smiled. “Oh, let’s not discuss that.” He popped one of the snacks into his mouth, leaning back with a sigh. “Let’s just enjoy a little midnight picnic…”

“Dark lunch,” Crowley corrected him. “As the kids say.”

“You won’t seem trendy if you add that,” Anathema remarked. The demon tensed up for a moment, but then motioned for the bottle and took a careless sip. “Eh, can’t be bothered to keep up with everything all the time, can I.”

“Right you are,” Aziraphale agreed, winding an arm around him. “We ought to live at our own pace. At least we’ll never be as out of touch as Head Office.” He took the bottle, then passed it to Madame Tracy. After a rather generous gulp, the retired medium suddenly looked up with a terrifying glitter in her eye. “We should go dancing,” she stated with the unshakable certainty of a door-to-door salesman unaware of their fate in the afterlife. Newt, Anathema and Shadwell immediately backed away slightly, but Aziraphale and Crowley leant forward. “Where’d you have in mind?” the angel asked.

“Oh, the _Scandal_ of course, it’s just across the road!” she immediately tittered. “It’d be just like old times! Come along, mr S., let me show you what these old knees can still do…”

The old knees were still capable of feats to truly match the _Scandal_ night club on Wells Street. Tracy was shockingly limber in the club’s red and purple lighting, and managed to consistently keep showing it off even as the live band inexplicably found itself moving from pounding beats to rock, jazz and even what just one person in the world might label bebop. Once, on a spontaneous flight of fancy, they even dipped into Sting’s rendition of _Spread a Little Happiness_ and no one in the dancing crowd seemed to mind one bit.

“I have a bit of a history in these clubs, you know,” the retired medium breathily entrusted Crowley as the band took a small break after a particularly upbeat bit of disco. “Used to dabble in a bit of go-go back in the day.”

“ _No,_ ” the demon hissed with a grin as wide as it would go. “Madame, you astonissh me. We might’ve met in the bad old days!” He glanced around. “You uh. Ever meet Sshadwell in his younger days?” The Sergeant’s old joints limited him to a rheumatic shuffle, but he did seem to be having a grand old time, sporting a wide grin under a scarlet nose.

“Oh, what an idea. I might have. Funny to think it took fate this long to really pull us together after living past eachother for so long!”

Crowley nearly choked on his reply to this, but it didn’t matter; the band had started playing again and he wouldn’t be able to make himself heard to Tracy’s aging ears anyway. She only gave him a cheeky grin, turned him around and pushed him towards Aziraphale. The angel had been amusing himself trying to get Newt and Anathema into the dancing spirit, but there was only so much he could do with a duo unfamiliar with gavotte. That dance was the only one for more than two partners he knew, after all. But being part of a pair…

Crowley liked to think he slid into Aziraphale’s arms with serpentine grace, but he was just sober enough to know he was too drunk for that. He stumbled a little, as did the angel, but then somehow they stumbled into sync (as they’d always done, and always would). Aziraphale was flushed and beaming and loose-limbed, a world away from how tired and stressed he’d been just hours prior. Crowley imagined he must be much the same himself. “Hi,” he breathed.

“Hi,” the angel grinned. “Let’s show them where our dancing lessons got us, shall we?”

With those eyes sparkling in the neon light and those hands on his waist, Crowley suddenly felt very hot and very hard-pressed to remember anything they’d learned since he’d signed both of them up for those lessons. None of the ballroom skills they’d acquired over the past year seemed to fit what was currently playing, anyway – but then Aziraphale moved, and the music was no longer a hindrance but merely a challenge, and Crowley was always up for one of those.

At some point the demon’s jitters had blown over; at some point the room had become theirs, and then they were feeling out their limits together, spinning and dipping in ways that shouldn’t fit the music at all, but they _made_ it fit. They moved faster and wilder than they were supposed to, and not nearly as neatly because of the drink, but they were still just as close and intimate as the waltzes and jives they’d learned to dance together, and that’d always been the important bit anyway. At some point, the music took over completely, and they both forgot all the existing steps in favour of something that better fit both the setting and themselves.

At some point they both realized the other dancers had made room for their more sweeping style, and Crowley faltered as he noticed, but although Aziraphale was blushing under the light he picked up the step Crowley had skipped, and kept going. He briefly touched his forehead to his demon’s. “It’s only us,” he muttered, somehow making himself heard perfectly over the music. Crowley couldn’t quite find his voice, but tended to agree; it was all too easy to forget the rest of the world like this.

“We seem to be more than practiced enough for our first dance in a few weeks, dearest.”

“This… issn’t really a dance for a wedding, though,” the demon managed, after being spun as though he weighed nothing at all. His brain had been spinning for a whole lot longer, and showed no signs of stopping.

“All the better,” the angel smirked as the song ended. “Where else am I going to dance it?”

“Y’know, we could. We could do this again ssometime,” Crowley cautiously ventured, feeling his heart leap as the angel considered it. “Step into the 70s, maybe even the 80s…” He’d never assumed Aziraphale might appreciate modern nightlife, and he was fairly sure the angel would never have expected to enjoy it himself, but here they were, flushed and grinning on a 2021 dance floor. “Maybe even the 80s,” Aziraphale thoughtfully echoed. “You know, now I’m here, I’m starting to see a point to it. Oh, but enough talk, darling!” he beamed as a new song started. “Move those feet!”

Crowley’s grin showed more than just a hint of fang. “I’ll ssweep you right off ‘em,” he promised, vehemently.

In the end, their human friends had to drag them off the dance floor because everyone with mortal lungs really needed some air, and for the ringing in their mortal ears to quiet down. Tracy was still somewhat keeping it together, but Shadwell, Newt and Anathema were all thoroughly plastered. Where Shadwell was simply more incoherent than normal and Anathema kept threatening to fall over, Newt wouldn’t stop giggling, and this gradually led to everyone slowly losing it and leaning into eachother and the club’s walls for support. The _Scandal’s_ doorwoman beheld their sorry lot for a moment before shaking her head. “Go home,” she advised. “It’s the asscrack of dawn, your beds are calling.”

Aziraphale glanced up at the sky. Dark; mostly lamplight and buildings, but when he squinted he thought he could see the faintest hint of lightness creeping in. “Where _has_ all that time gone?” he quietly wondered.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Newt cheered, half-supported by Anathema who really wasn’t the best pick for that job right now. “Also, our beds are all the way off in Tadford and Seafie- Tadfield and Sea- far away,” he stated. “We can’t possibly hear them here.” He happily rambled on as his girlfriend and Crowley fondly – if unsteadily – toted him away, totally rid of his normal shyness and timidity. Aziraphale regarded them for a moment, smiling to himself. He _had_ agreed with all four of their human friends to miracle them sober again by the end of the night, so they could actually drive back home, but that just didn’t feel right anymore. Not with the warm cotton comfortably clouding his own mind. No, taking that from them and sending them into the chilly night just wouldn’t do, he decided. “You know, you’re welcome to stay the night with us,” he spoke up, silencing Newt’s babbling. Crowley raised a wobbly eyebrow. “Wut?”

Yes, he really must be drunk, the angel realized. His decision stood, however. “I don’t want you driving home at this hour. Let’s turn in at the bookshop, there’s plenty of room.”

“Is there really?” Anathema doubted.

“There will be,” the angel smiled. “Newt, dear fellow, step to.”

“Nonono,” the young man protested. “I want to rob a bank. Get some Thai food…” His eyes widened and he let out a small gasp as he turned to Crowley. “ _I want to get a tattoo._ ” Anathema immediately stifled a giggle.

“Nah, y’don’t,” the demon blurrily retorted. “What, like me?” He vaguely gestured at the side of his face. “’S not even a tattoo!”

“Newt,” Newt insisted. “It’s genius. ‘M gonna get a newt.”

“Yer far too sloshed to make that decision, lad,” Shadwell said, shoving Newt ahead with one heavy hand between his shoulderblades. “Come along now.”

Crowley turned to Anathema as the old witchfinder and his former private tipsily argued back and forth. “I think you might wanna get out more, Anathema,” he said, aiming for wicked but ending up a little lopsided in the effort. “This one has a wild streak.”

“What, enjoy the thrills of Tadfield nightlife?” the witch chuckled.

“I think it’s about to get more interesting down there,” the demon snickered. _And not in the least because of you,_ he mentally added.

They managed to distract Newt from the few tattoo studios they passed on their way back to Old Compton Street. It wasn’t very hard, though while the young wages clerk stumbled and sported an ever hazier grin, the night gradually got hazier for all of them as alcohol and fatigue took their toll. Aziraphale remembered miracling up mattresses for everyone in the middle of the bookshop, and himself and Crowley ending back exactly where they’d started the night – the old sofa that’d come to belong to both of them, and had gotten accustomed to comfortably fitting both of them as well, no fuss made about the laws of physics.

The angel couldn’t be more happy and relaxed than he’d been when he’d gotten up from it last. There was not a trace of wedding stress left in him, only a warm, dizzily spinning sort of giddiness. He found himself smiling into the crook of Crowley’s neck. _I can’t wait to marry you,_ he thought, realizing just a beat later he’d said it out loud as the demon tensed up. He nuzzled closer. “I love you such an awful lot, my dear.”

The demon pulled back, and suddenly there were two slender hands on the angel’s cheeks. “Aziraphale,” Crowley began, and the angel knew this was truly serious, always was when his name was pulled out in favour of ‘angel’, “Aziraphale, ssolemnly, I love you more than I can ssay. More than you could ever know.”

“Dearest, we merge essences on the regular. I’ve seen through your eyes.” Overwhelming though that might still be, every time; he felt a pleasant shiver just thinking about it.

“More than you could _possssibly_ know,” Crowley insisted, his fangs a visible and very audible hindrance now.

“Alright, darling.” Aziraphale pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the demon’s lips. “I love you more than crêpes,” he quietly entrusted his fiancé, trying and failing to control his smile as this statement took effect.

“Oh my God,” Crowley whispered, momentarily too moved and too tipsy to hear himself. There were tears in his eyes. “Oh my God, angel. You would’ve _died_ for crêpes.” For a moment he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself; then he simply pulled Aziraphale in, wrapping him up in a tight serpentine embrace and not letting go. Aziraphale let him, so happy he could scarcely keep the glow of his halo at bay for fear of lighting up the whole shop and waking everyone.

Everyone, soon including Crowley – and then, though sleeping was still more of a hobby than a necessity, Aziraphale himself as well.

The angel didn’t sleep for very long. He didn’t wake at an unreasonable time; the sun had fully risen and hidden behind London’s smog and cloud as he pressed a fond kiss to Crowley’s slack cheek and tucked the demon back in. Still he was the only one awake in the shop, and he wouldn’t even think of opening it today. The others had quite the hangover to sleep off. Aziraphale smiled and quietly snapped his fingers. Now they didn’t.

Equally quietly, the angel climbed to the circular balcony overlooking the ground floor and its human sleepers, a steaming cup of cocoa in one hand and Anathema’s tarot card in the other. The Wheel of Fortune, the prediction of the world and their life to come. He let the previous night play out in his head; drink and stories, breaking some rules and sheltering humanity. If that was Anathema’s prediction, he couldn’t be more happy to see it come true in the future, every blessed day of it. He couldn’t wait to seal that future, and he couldn’t imagine a finer bunch of witnesses for the occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Although Aziraphale had stealthily turned it to wine a few times, and stifled a little smile behind his hand when Anathema had blamed Crowley before remembering it was a rather classically biblical miracle she was dealing with here.[return to text]
> 
> 2He’d unthinkingly let himself be roped into a few rounds of ‘you blink, you drink’ with Crowley before remembering what the grinning demon was. In his defense, lucid thought had become increasingly hard as it’d gone on.[return to text]
> 
> The next story might take a while because I want and need it to be perfect, but rest assured I'll be working on it, and it won't be the last thing in this series either. Thank you so much for reading, and even more if you decide to stick around! Love you more than crêpes! <3


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